


Long Black Train

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Time Marches On [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Vessels, Gen, Ghosts, Season/Series 01, Smoking, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It roars through every Thursday that month, leaving a trail of scattering dead leaves and a general unease in its wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Black Train

It roars through every Thursday that month, leaving a trail of scattering dead leaves and a general unease in its wake.

At first, Dean doesn't know what to make of it—his coworkers don’t talk about it, but the customers are chatty as ever about the _ghost train_. There’s not even a track behind the Starlight Diner, just an empty patch of land along a decrepit tree line and a fence too old to be standing. Then again, what else would he expect for the middle of nowhere Kentucky? He doesn’t even know the name of the town; they won’t be here for long, anyway. Another week while they track down just where the _damn_ vamp’s nest is, and they’ll be on the road again, hunting down something that isn’t trying its hardest to keep hidden.

Really, they should have solved this two weeks ago, back when applying to work at a diner didn’t seem like such a long-term decision. Now, he and Sam have been here a month and he knows most of the staff by their first name, including a few of their phone numbers if he ever got the occasion. Sam spends most of his time poring over city documents either in the corner booth or at the motel, the former more often than the latter. To the locals, they don’t know each other—the longer it stays that way, the better.

But even when Sam asks what the roaring is outside around seven every Thursday evening, he comes up just as empty as Dean. Sam brings in several county planning maps one day, and between customers Dean skims over the documents over Sam’s shoulder, under the guise of refilling his coffee. “A rail line ran here in the 1880’s,” Sam says, eyes boring holes in the aging paper, “but they went defunct and everyone left town ten years later. Ripped up the rails and laid them down in the next county over.”

That explains the phantom train, but there’s nothing they can do about that; residual hauntings aren’t an issue until they start trying to _kill_ someone, and even then, it’s always hard to track down an _object_ that came in thousands of parts. For now, they can let that one rest, let the train continue on its undetermined destination—there are other things they need to be concerning themselves with, like the fact another girl went missing while Dean was worrying about why a phantom horn kept blowing.

After another few days of searching every home and barn and abandoned shack out in the fields, they come up with nothing. No names, no suspicious activity, not even blood. It isn’t until the owner of the diner’s _daughter_ comes forward while her father’s in the kitchen that they make some sort of headway. “It’s the train,” she comments while Dean’s on his lunch break out front, a cigarette hanging from between his lips, smoldering at the tip. Sam listens at his side, the woman’s eyes dancing between Dean and her shoes. She’s Dean’s age, the head waitress and hell-bent on keeping it that way. “My friend Marnie? Last I see’s her, she was runnin’ for the tracks ‘cause she said she thought ‘er mama was out there. But ‘er mama been dead for damn near ten years.” She shrugs, pushing her braids out of her face. “Daddy didn’ wan’ me tellin’ nobody.”

“It’s good you said something,” Sam says, a small smile on his lips. The girl—Ashante—nods and runs back inside through the glass-paned doors. Dean takes a quick drag and drops his cigarette, blowing smoke and stomping it out beneath the sole of his boot. “You’ve really gotta cut back,” he scolds Dean, nudging his shoulder. “Seriously, what’s that? A pack this week?”

“I’ll stop when we gank this thing,” Dean sighs, voice hoarse. “So, no vamps.”

“Sounds like it.” Sam opens his newspaper and flips to a middle page, pointing at the small-block headline in the right corner. _Local Woman Missing Near Old Louisville Southern Tracks_. “Don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. All the signs were there—.”

“But we were going in the wrong direction.” Dean looks to Sam, concern furrowing his brow. “Figured, strange disappearances, gotta be vamps, right? But a _ghost_?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Sam shrugs. “What’re you thinking, disgruntled engineer stealing passengers for a train that doesn’t exist?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Dean nods to the Impala parked out front in the gravel lot, no cars passing on either side of the two-lane stretching along either end of the horizon. “If the dude’s from the 1880’s, then he’s probably in the census, right? Go’n see if you can track down anyone who lived in the area and worked the Louisville Southern.”

“Can do.” Before he leaves, Sam fishes into Dean’s apron pocket before Dean can stop him, pulling out the quarter-full pack of Marlboro’s and unceremoniously dumping them in the trashcan by the door. “Seriously. I know you don’t do it in the car, but you _reek_. Quit while you’re ahead?”

Dean just rolls his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets. “No fun, Sammy,” he mocks with a grin. “Go do your nerd thing.”

Sam returns to the motel an hour after Dean finishes his shift, three manila folders full of paper in his hands. Outside, the lone streetlamp pours light through the half-open blinds, the only illumination aside from the television playing static in the corner. He’s not quiet about his entrance; unintentionally it stirs Dean from a fitful sleep, reflexes having half the forethought to pull a gun on his brother. He resists at the last minute, hand instead grabbing the black quill tucked beside the weapon under his pillow, the only source of calm he has amongst the chaos of their case. “Did I wake you?” Sam asks, only sounding half-apologetic.

Dean waves him off and sits up, rubbing his eyes of aborted sleep. “Was dozing,” he yawns. He takes his discarded shirt from the space between their beds and pulls it on, following with his jeans. “Gonna walk for a bit. See if I can find anything around the diner. You in?”

“I’m gonna read over what I’ve got here.” Sam holds up the files, barely managing to rescue the pages that threaten to escape out of the sides. “I’ll call if I find anything.”

With a nod, Dean toes on his sneakers and leaves, room key in his coat pocket and cellphone in hand. It’s cold outside, just enough of a chill to sting whatever skin isn’t covered, mainly his face. His nose is running by the time he reaches the diner a half-mile down the road, interior lights shut off, the neon Starlight Diner sign still going strong, only the S missing tonight. Gravel crunches beneath his feet as he walks, boots treading into the grass and down a foot-worn path, in the direction of the long-gone track bed.

He expected darkness—expected to see nothing but his feet and his hand in front of his face. Instead, he spots a boy standing along where the rails once resided, long hair pillowing his shoulders, an eerily happy air about him. If he looked hard enough he could have _sworn_ he looked like—“Dean,” the boy calls out. And that’s confirmation enough—he’s either hallucinating or the spirit is right in front of him in the shape of his brother, probably ten years old at best. “Dean, c’mon! It’s this way!”

“Wait—.” He’s moving before he can stop himself, ignoring the feel of the wind rushing past him and the leaves scattering at his feet; he follows the spirit—or his brother, he can’t tell which—into the path of the tracks, the breeze stronger now, gusting. On the other side, Sam watches, smiling amidst the roar, the words he shouts lost to Dean’s ears. It’s not until Dean looks to his left that he sees it fully, the black specter tearing through the darkness, a single light blinding him until all he knows is the train and the hand on his bicep, yanking him away.

He rolls into the grass with a shout, the vision lost in a flurry of rustling leaves and the faint, dissipating blare of a horn to his right. It takes him another minute to realize that he’s _not_ dead before he opens his eyes, the blackness of the night sky obscured by something equally dark, braids dangling a few inches from his face, startling blue staring back into his eyes, bright.

 _Oh_.

“You’re not Ashante, are you?” Dean wheezes, blinking the fear from his eyes.

Blue-eyed Ashante leans up with her hands on her hips, fingers rigid on her pajama-clad hips. She’s not even wearing shoes, feet bare in the dew-soaked grass. “Not right now,” she says and cocks her head at an angle, eyes narrowing. Dean knows that look—he’s seen it in his dreams in various forms, always with the same eyes.

The _Angel_. “You saved me,” Dean says, swallowing the residual fear in his throat and standing, breaths still coming in harsh pants. “Why’d you—.”

“It’s not your time yet,” Castiel tells him, reaching a hand over to cover his shoulder, black fingers trailing over the leather in a caress. “There’s still much more planned for you.”

Dean scoffs, hanging his head while Castiel continues to pet his arm, something about it calming. “I didn't ask for the grand _scheme_ ,” he groans. “I’m asking, why did _you_ save me?”

For the first time since Dean started _remembering_ these visits, Castiel furrows her brow, confusion pinching her lips. “I don’t understand—Do I need a reason?”

“Kinda?” Dean allows her to cup his wrist, her fingers sliding underneath his sleeve cuff, cold. His heart skips at the touch. “You’re normally—we’ve met _six times_ , Cas. Probably more, with that freaky… _mind wipe_ thing you do. And this is the first time you’ve pulled my ass outta the fire.”

Castiel shrugs, looking down to where their skin meets, her fingers pressing gently to the frail underside of his wrist. “I wanted to,” she admits, then glances up at Dean, sadness in her eyes. “I fear I’m getting too close to you.”

“So you’re leaving?” Castiel’s eyes widen at the accusation; Dean barges on, features tightening. “This is your way of saying ‘bye’? By making sure some _ghost_ doesn't whisk me off to God knows where?”

“You know it’s not like that.” Castiel lets her hand drop, backing away a step. Dean aches at the loss, aches to fill the space again, no matter how small the touch. “If there were any other way, I’d stay here.”

“But you can’t,” he states, head bowed. He can sense Castiel nodding and sighs with the unseen admission. “This is some… Angel thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, her voice lacking the confidence it bore only moments ago. “If I could, I’d like to see you again. I’m afraid my time in this vessel is running out.”

Dean nods without hesitance. “…Are you ever gonna stop flapping away?”

“One day.” She points to the clearing beyond the trees, adding, “What you seek is in the cemetery fifty feet that way.” And she’s gone, lost in a flurry of wings in the night; a single feather falls, tinged in white around the edges. He catches it before it hits the ground and runs his fingers along the barbs before shoving it into his jacket pocket, holding it tight.

Outside with Castiel’s absence, the night is frigid, still. He’s never felt this alone before, at least not in a while, not knowing whether or not he’ll see the Angel again. His cellphone breaks the silence, ringing twice before Dean manages to break from his thoughts; he picks it up on the third ring, pressing it to his ear. “Dean, Dean—There’s a cemetery behind the diner, look for Henry—.”

He sighs before Sam even finishes his sentence, head lowered to the grass. “…I got it, Sammy. Thanks.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...It's been over a year since I added something to this series, and I got the idea today to write something for Halloween before my DSB comes out. So, have some spooky ghost trains! I have school work to do, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore.
> 
> How is everyone liking my DCBB? I still need to reply to comments, so don't think I'm ignoring you. Trying to work up the courage to talk to people!
> 
> Title is from the Josh Turner song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
